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I Found a Philip Roth Book at a Dollar Store
by R.P. Infantino

    And I was furious. Even Roth, an atheist, would scream, “God! What has become of the human condition?”

    With the shelves of knickknacks and trinkets near empty, and tasteless TV Dinners all but bought out, here was America’s most masterful writer, Philip Roth, untouched, every book still standing. Oh, the indignation. No one cared, no one remotely interested in one of our most peerless authors. They’re more interested in bugle-shaped corn chip. I dare say Philip Roth is rolling over in his grave at the thought of his book being purchased for a handful of quarters. And even at that measly sum, no one’s buying.

    But Philip Roth is far from rotating, whirling, or gyrating in his grave. He was well aware of the fate of the book since the invention of “the screen.” First the movie screen, then the television screen, and finally the ubiquitous computer screen. He knew of the books slow decline toward oblivion. No, there is no spinning, reeling, or even groaning for Philip Roth. But I, among the living—if you can call them that—felt the need to take action.

    “Look!” I said to passers-by as I held the book toward their shocked faces. “It’s Philip Roth. Only a dollar.” They looked at me as if I had two heads on top of the one I already had. “Philip Roth! Hello? America’s most revered author. Ever hear of him?”

    “Is he better than Stephanie Meyer?” asked a customer. “I love her books.”

    “Stephanie Meyer? That’d be like comparing great literature to comic book writing. Philip Roth has won the Pulitzer Prize. The Pulitzer!"

    “What about James Patterson?” asked another. “Is he better than him?”

    Without commenting on his bad grammar, I responded, “Oh, puh-leaze. James Patterson couldn’t sharpen Philip Roth’s pencils. We’re talking Philip Roth, people.” They avoided me as they do the crazed man on a city street screaming, “The end is near.”

    “Philip Roth!” I continued to rant. “He’s won every major writing award. Thirty-one books over a 50-year career. Quality books, not like the hackwork that is doled out by today’s scribblers. Roth’s books will make you laugh, make you think. They will change you.” If I had leprosy, they wouldn’t have avoided me as much as they did.

    Even though I knew it to be a lost cause, I began to list Philip Roth’s books in the hopes it would pique their interest. “Goodbye, Columbus, an auspicious debut.” Did they not know the title, or not know the meaning of auspicious? “Zuckerman Unbound, The Plot Against America.” People looked dyspeptic. “Portnoy’s Complaint. Portnoy’s Complaint!” I repeated as I grabbed the coat sleeve of a customer.

    “Oh, there'll be complaining, awright,” she said as she stormed away.

    “For God’s sake, people.” There I go, evoking a God Philip Roth believed did not exist.

    As I continued to rage, the woman approached with the store manager by her side, pointing an accusatory finger in my direction. They advanced with caution.

    “Sir,” said the manager, “you’ll either have to calm down or I must ask you to leave. You’re upsetting our customers.”

    “Can you explain,” I asked, “why a Philip Roth book is in a store where you can buy everything for a handful of pennies? The cover price is twenty-five dollars. If you paid double, you’d still be a winner.”

    “Sir, we get boxes of books all the time. I have no idea who sends them or why they’re here. If you like it, buy it for a buck. Otherwise, you must move on.”

    “This is unjust. Not only should Philip Roth not be in a Dollar Store, but even at a dollar no one is snatching it up.” With bugged eyes, I turned to the customers. “What’s with you people?”

    “Whatta ya mean ‘you people?' ” said a man with disdain in his voice.

    “You people,” I replied. “You people who are not buying, and more importantly, not reading Philip Roth, at a dollar no less. You people who buy junk, eat junk, read junk. Instead of buying that months-old pre-popped popcorn and that sickening cotton candy, buy this Philip Roth book which will nourish you more.” As I approached a woman with Roth’s book in hand—like a preacher holding a Bible—she scooted away with the junk in her basket. “The end is near,” I cried. “You’ll read Meyer and Patterson and the other hackneyed pencil pushers, yet won’t give Philip Roth, America’s most respected author, a try even for a buck. This is the real plot against America.”

    “Sir,” said the manager, “if you’re so into this author, why don’t you buy them all and give them away as gifts?”

    I quickly snapped my fingers. Without a response to the man, I grabbed all the Philip Roth books from the shelf and paid for them at the register. Then, like a bookish Kriss Kringle, I stood outside the store and handed them to shocked people on the street. When they were all given away, I departed with a grin so wide my gums hurt. As I walked away, I felt proud for enlightening the masses, thrilled that many would be turned onto the work of Philip Roth, and eager to discover their reactions. I peered over my shoulder, thinking I’d see many faces buried in the Philip Roth books they had received. I imagined an in-depth discussion arising from the readers upon their discovery of this profound author. What I witnessed was much different.

    Philip Roth’s prophecy was correct. The book will face a similar fate as the 8-track tape, the typewriter, and the art of letter writing. Reading will eventually become outmoded, if it hasn’t already gone out of fashion. We’ve become a visual society where people’s attention span is equivalent to that of the Minute Waltz.

    Each of the Philip Roth books I had given away were piled high on the sidewalk, some left at the curb, while the rest were tossed in a trash can.

    Philip Roth is not rolling over in his grave one bit. He foresaw this decline long before its arrival. I’m just glad he didn’t give up writing books before the public gave up reading them.

Copyright © 2023 by R.P. Infantino